


Good Looking Out

by megyal



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's an apartment across from mine that's been free for awhile. Gonna talk to the landlady about it, but I don't think she'd have a problem. Interested?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Looking Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> Donation fic (arranged by [fandomaid](http://fandomaid.livejournal.com/)); Gryvon kindly donated and I am super late in fulfilling. Thank you for your patience, Gryvon and while I'm not too sure it fits your request, I really hope you enjoy.
> 
>  **Request:** _I could really go for some first time mixed with domesticity. Maybe Matt taming McClane's household/helping with his family?_

Everyone got all concerned about the kid afterwards; John was simultaneously surprised and kind of annoyed at it.

"Dad," Luce grumbled at him over the phone. "Matt's a really good guy, he just made some questionable choices."

"Questionable choices," John repeated into his pillow, because Lucy chose to call him at fucking four o'clock in the goddamned morning; not that he didn't want to hear from his daughter, he'd gone for years without a call or even a text, and now Lucy gave him a call every day. But he had been _sleeping_. John loved his sleep because he really didn't get enough of it.

"Yeah, Daddy," Luce bubbled on, sounding absolutely perky. John had no idea where she got that from; Holly hated mornings, just like John did, and so Lucy's penchant for bright-eyes and bushy-tails at fuck o'clock in the morning was a complete mystery. "Maybe you can keep an eye on him?"

"What?" John rolled over onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

" _Because_ ," Lucy said and ostensibly that was the entire answer. John garbled out some response, he didn't even know what he said. Apparently it had been some form of compliance which appeased his daughter, because she said, "That's great, thanks!" and hung up on him.

Miguel Bowman called him as he'd been going through some reports from his squad at his desk, perusing information on a rash of kidnappings.

"How the hell did you get my number?" John frowned down at Carlson's messy handwriting, then glared at the flickering computer screen in front of him. "I changed it. On purpose."

"Don't you worry about that," Bowman said. "You have any idea where Matt Farrell is living right now?

John wrinkled his nose. Across the pen, Mendoza raised her eyebrows and he shrugged at her. "The kid's working for you," he reminded Bowman, not too gently. "I ain't hunting him down again if you've lost him."

"We haven't lost him," Bowman said and a note of irritation crept into his voice. John felt a little pleased at that. "And he's more of a contractor than an employee. We know where he's living. I was wondering if you did."

John felt a wave of mystification rise up in him. "Why...why would I even care?"

"You should," Bowman answered. "He's a good person at heart. He just needs someone to make sure he keeps on the straight and narrow."

"Then put one of your dickheads on it," John snapped. "I don't have time to babysit anybody."

At her desk, Mendoza mused, "Then why do you make sure we all eat lunch on time? You gave a juice-box to Gianna last week. You didn't give me a juice-box, though."

John ignored her. "I'm gonna have to change my number again, Bowman. Just so you know," he said.

"Go ahead," Bowman replied, back to his newly calm and smug mode. "I'll just ask Farrell to track you down again. Have a nice day, Detective McClane."

He hung up and John set his phone very carefully down on the desk, so that he wouldn't squeeze it to death in his hand. 

Mendoza said, "Can I get a juice-box, McClane?"

John opened the drawer of his desk, fished out a juice-box from the small carton he'd managed to stuff in there and flung it at her head. Unfortunately, Mendoza caught it easily, laughing said head off.

The very last straw was a call from Holly.

"John," she said without so much as a how-are-you. "I'm concerned about this Matthew person."

"You don't even know who he is," John said, keying open the door to his apartment. "Seriously, Hols."

"I don't need to meet him," she said and for a moment, John just stood there outside his darkened hallway, enjoying the crisp cadence of her voice. He adored her; he always would, to his dying day. "He helped Lucy, he saved your life, and that's really enough for me. I think you need to take him under your wing."

"Oh my god," John grumbled, going in and locking the door. He should have expected this. Holly still called Al Powell with cheery regularity. "What the hell."

"Don't what the hell me, John McClane!" Holly's voice climbed the register shrilly. "I say you take care of this boy, you take care of this boy. You got that?"

"Jesus Christ," John said and suddenly, they were both laughing. "Okay, jeez. He's not even a boy, but anything to get you all off my damned back."

"Okay, John," Holly said, the lovely traces of a chortle still in her voice. "Maybe I'll have someone else to call when I need to keep track of you."

"All you have to do call me," John told her, turning on a few lights and gazing around the sparsely furnished living room. The two armchairs and the loveseat were as old as John's marriage and divorce put together, and the television sat on a set of crates. The kitchen was mostly bare, because all John needed in the morning was coffee; the fridge was for juice, water and milk. Everything else he ordered in or ate in his car. 

"Sure, Johnny," Holly said in a gentle scoff. "I'll talk to you real soon."

"Promise?" he asked, because he couldn't help himself. She hesitated, a small pause which threaded an ache through John's chest. She couldn't promise that, not now. Her new husband, Archibald Conner, had all her promises now, the way she used to have all of John's. At least she hadn't changed her name to Conner; he liked the sound of 'Holly Gennero' more than anything else, even 'Holly McClane'.

"Promise," Holly finally answered and John felt that knot loosen. "Take care, John."

After she hung up, John wrestled with the laptop Lucy had sent to him and plugged in the cable for the internet; he'd refused a wireless router, much to the consternation of the installation guys. He sent an email to Bowman, asking for the kid's contacts, then shut everything down and went to sleep. In the morning, he got a reply from Bowman which managed to exude self-satisfaction as it related Farrell's number.

John dialled it before he could change his mind.

"Hello?" Even at seven in the morning, Farrell sounded wide awake, albeit harried and a little breathless. John heard music played low, and rapid tapping.

"Hey, kid," John said and he couldn't help it that his voice came out sounding so warm. "McClane here."

There was a very long silence, so much so that John pulled the phone away from his ear, eyeing the little screen and wondering if they'd been disconnected. He put it back to his ear and said, "You there, Farrell?"

"Yeah! I'm...uh, here." 

John heard shifting around and then Farrell said, obviously to someone else, "Yes, that McClane. I'm going outside for a minute….no, I don't know!"

A door slammed on Farrell's end and then he spoke up again: "What's up, McClane?"

"How've you been?" John asked, rubbing the back of his head. Farrell released a soft exhale, almost a groan.

"I dunno, good, I guess? I mean, I'm hanging out at Kaludis HQ, Mrs. Kaludis is great, but. You know, Warlock is kind of a pain. But, good good good. My knee's doing okay, too! Still hurts but an actual bullet went through it, so thems the breaks. Literally and metaphorically." He drew a great breath. "How, uh, how are you?"

"Fine," John answered shortly. "There's an apartment across from mine that's been free for awhile. Gonna talk to the landlady about it, but I don't think she'd have a problem. Interested?" He expected Farrell to say no, so he was a little taken aback at the giddy laughter which curled into his ear. It was a pleasant sound.

"Am I _interested_? Hell yeah!" Farrell said and then laughed in that wild fashion again. "I mean, if the rent's good?"

"The rent's good," John confirmed. "And if you need to commute, it's not so bad."

"McClane, you're a lifesaver," Farrell said in a fervent murmur. "Seriously. Warlock does nothing in the house and I've been helping out with the chores and stuff but I…I just need my own space."

John huffed, amused. "And you can put up all the little dolls you want."

"Shut up, McClane," Farrell said, aggrieved. "Come on, man."

John laughed out loud at that. It was after he hung up that he realised he only really laughed like that around Holly.

\----

Farrell moved into the apartment at the end of the month. John came home, grimly exhausted, and found the landlady and Farrell talking animatedly outside the open front door. Mrs. Sung stood with her arms stuck in her coat-pockets, a smile creasing her round face. Farrell had a set of keys in his left hand, and he kept turning the ring on his second finger. As John trudged down the corridor towards them, Farrell looked in his direction and his smile grew wide.

"Hey, McClane!" he greeted as John stopped in front of them. Mrs. Sung beamed up at him, and John offered a tired smile. He liked Mrs. Sung; she wasn't nosy or talkative.

"Hey," he said and took a moment to consider Farrell: he'd cut his hair, and for some reason, it made his ears look kind of weird. Not bad-weird, just… there-weird. A pair of glasses sat atop his head. Mrs. Sung excused herself in her low voice, walking quickly towards the elevator. rounded shoulders hunched.

"Thanks again," Farrell said, when it became apparent that John was quite content to stand here in the hallway and not say anything. "Mrs. Kaludis says hi, she was here earlier."

"Okay." John tilted his head to glance into Farrell's apartment. It was the same layout as his, just mirrored: a short hallway that marched past a small kitchen on the left and a storage closet on the right, folding doors hiding the surprisingly deep space. The hallway opened out into a combined living and dining area, with a small patio at the opposite end to the entry. The bedroom and bathroom were just beyond the closet, doors opening on the right from the living area. 

"Not as big as your last place," John pointed out, keeping his tone dry. Farrell glanced over his shoulder at his new apartment, at the small number of boxes and a single suitcase, and turned back with a twinkle in his eye.

"Yeah, and because I'm totally into self-punishment, I moved in next to the guy who got my last place blown up."

"It was my pleasure," John told him and Farrell laughed in that helpless way he had, as if John had been telling jokes for hours. "Well, welcome home."

Farrell stared at him and then grinned. "Hey, thanks. Wait, I need some water to drink, I'm so thirsty. I haven't gotten a filter as yet."

"Or a sofa," John said, turning around to open his door. "Or a television."

"I got some stuff coming in tomorrow. You know, I feel that televisions are kind of useless for me," Farrell pointed out as they stepped into John's place. "I'm not really into mainstream programming, anyway. I hate how the news slants everything and I'd rather watch a show on my own time."

"You rebel, you." John turned into his kitchen, pulling a glass out of a cupboard and filling it with cool water from the pitcher in the fridge. He rested it on the counter which separated the kitchen from the living/dining area. Matt stood near the corner of the kitchen, looking at John's space with an odd, distant expression. "Hey, here's your damned water."

He turned to John, and brightened when he spotted the glass. "Thanks!" He took it up and put it to his lips, drinking quickly.

"It's none of that energy drink shit," John said when Farrell set the empty glass on the counter. "But it'll do in a pinch, right?"

Farrell just squinted at him. "Hit me again, barkeep! I have a mighty thirst!"

John rolled his eyes, but he poured the water, anyway.

\----

During the next week, crates and boxes arrived for the kid. John signed for a few of them when he could, and it was nice to have Farrell chattering at him when they encountered each other in the hall. John really liked to hear him talk; it was like having on music in the place, because Farrell didn't need a reply, generally speaking, and he seemed content around John's silence. They fit each other real good.

That was… fine, right? Right.

About a week after the deliveries stopped, Farrell met him in the foyer, next to the bank of mailboxes.

"Hey!" He grinned widely and John smiled back. "I'm having a thing, a party thing up by my place. This Friday, okay?"

"Sure," John said. "Thanks for telling me. I appreciate that."

Farrell nodded, and then he paused, shaking his head slightly as his heavy brows tilted towards each other. "No, wait, uh, I'm not telling you just to be neighbourly or whatever and I'd keep the noise down in any case, it's just some people from work or whatever. It's… I'm inviting you. To the thing, to the party."

"Me?" John actually jabbed a finger at his own chest, where a pleased warmth had begun to spread under his skin. "Kid, you don't want--"

"I know what I want." Farrell's voice had become extremely quiet, his gaze far too direct. "McClane, I really want you to be there."

John nodded, very slowly. "Sure. Should I bring anything?"

Farrell flapped one hand at him, keying open his mailbox. "Just bring your grizzly self, man. It'll be fun."

John knew that his idea of fun probably didn't intersect with Farrell's idea of fun, but he nodded anyway and headed to work. Mendoza squawked in surprise when he clocked out early that evening and all of them gawked at him when he said he had to go to a friend's party.

"You know what a party is?" Mendoza had whispered, loudly.

"You have friends?" Carlos yelled. John gave them both fingers as he headed through the door. He had a brief mental struggle as he got home: drop right by Farrell's, from under whose door emerged surprisingly soothing music, or go catch a shower and change. He decided to go back to his own place, with the feeling that he was dawdling somehow. He tugged out a nice long-sleeved knit shirt which he had bought but never worn, and a nice pair of jeans. He dressed without looking at himself in the mirror, locked the apartment and took three steps across the corridor to knock on Farrell's door.

A woman with a shock of thick, curly hair opened the door. She blinked at him from behind a pair of glasses that looked like the kind John's grandmother used to wear and then her eyes widened.

"Hello," she said with a wide smile. "You're John McClane, right?"

"Right." John raised an eyebrow at her. "Heard bad things?"

"Oh, no." She stepped to one side, holding out one arm in welcome. "Just the opposite."

John released a small, disbelieving huff as he entered. He had to take a moment just to stare, because Farrell's apartment looked like something out of a magazine: really nice furniture, bookshelves, paintings on the wall; John had honestly expected a few beanbags thrown on the ground, and a computer system sophisticated enough to launch satellites in its sleep. Instead, he had walked into a _home_. 

"I'm Samila," the woman told him as John just stood there in the entrance, gazing at the standing lamps on either side of a long couch, casting soft light onto the milling group. They were all Farrell's age, so comfortable in their youth that it made John's skin inch. He set his jaw.

"Nice to meet you," he remembered to tell Samila, and then tried to walk into the living area without looking as if he didn't want to proceed. Someone offered him a beer, which he refused, and someone else asked if he wanted some food, which he accepted. He was given a plate with sandwiches, something delicious with thick slices of bread and a meat filling which could have been some kind of barbecue. He had no idea what it was, but he ate two as he sat on one of the stools which bracketed the eating counter.

Farrell emerged from his bedroom, while John had been starting the second one, chatting on about some wireless connection. John remained where he was, just taking him in. The kid looked happy. His eyes seemed so warm as he laughed at the mocking from his friends, but he seemed to grow even brighter when his gaze met John's.

"McClane!" He actually waved, as if McClane was standing in a building across the road, instead of a few feet away. Farrell slipped through the crowd, squeezing a shoulder here and there and then finally hopped up on the empty stool beside John. "Hey, man," he said, in comfortable tones. "Really glad you came."

"Thanks for the invitation," John said and looked round, nodding in time with the soft music. "I like what you've done with the place."

"Yeah," Farrell agreed, his expression extremely pleased. "Finally got a chance to buy back some stuff, you know?"

Without thinking, John said, "Hey, maybe you could even fix up my place. Make it look like someone actually lives there, you know?" He was joking, of course. Well, kind of, but Farrell looked at him with a suddenly solemn air. 

"You know, I'd like that," he said, looking right into John's eyes. John didn't feel the need to pull his gaze away, but they must have seemed a bit weird, sitting here and staring at each other intently. "I really would, you know."

"You don't have to," John said. "It's not--"

"I'd love to. Your place is kind of sad." Farrell's eyes sparkled as he grinned at John, and it was then he had to look away, frowning slightly at the warm feeling in the middle of his chest.

"It wouldn't take much," the kid continued earnestly (and John had to stop thinking of him as the kid). "It's the least I could do, you know. You pulled my ass out of a Fire Sale _and_ out of Warlock's basement. I owe you for life."

John laughed. It was partly because of Farrell's fervent tone of voice and partly because Farrell didn't owe him a damn thing; he had a wide smile on his face when he looked back at Farrell again, taking in the slyly sweet twist of his lips and the way his eyebrows were raised, ever so slightly.

"Okay," John heard himself say, because why the hell not. "Work your magic. I'll pay--"

"No," Farrell cut in, firm but warm. "It's on me. Don't worry." He nodded once, a quick dip of his head. "I got you, man."

"That's nice to hear," John told him, tone hopefully dry enough to hide the fact that it really _was_ that nice to hear.

\----

The sofa and the coffee-table came first. The couch was very long, long enough for John to lie in it comfortably and doze off, and the cloth-like material was a dark grey. Farrell had arranged for the armchairs to be removed and re-upholstered because according to him, they still had 'good bones'.

"Kid, I can't accept this," John said from where he had sprawled off on the sofa. "This is… too comfortable." It was more than comfortable: his back felt like a million dollars. He had just come in from work and found the furniture standing in the hallway on Farrell's side, waiting to be dragged in. Farrell pushed the coffee-table back and forth, eyeing each position until he seemed content with its location.

"The recliner will be in tomorrow." Farrell got up and put his hands on his lips, looking around John's living area. "The television thingy on Monday. It's really a media center, it's got shelves and, like, compartments--"

"Why are you doing this for me?" John asked, because sometimes all he had was blunt. Farrell gazed on him as if his question was completely inconsequential.

"Because I want to," he finally answered, but he said it in a way that seemed as if he was using the wrong words. John looked up at him from his contented sprawl. Farrell seemed to be looking at everything else except for John's face.

John dug one of his elbows into the plush surface of the couch and forced himself to sit up, very slowly. His newly rested back did not protest in the slightest.

“Kid,” he began, pausing when Farrell's entire body went unnaturally still. John thought about that little nickname he'd just used, and then tried, softly: “Matt.”

“Yeah?” Matt sounded as if he was being strangled, voice pitched high and straining. He cleared his throat, and John watched with no little surprise as a flush crept slowly up his neck. John heard himself calling Matt's name again. It emerged low and deep from between his lips, like a soft prayer.

“Recliner,” Matt said, half-desperately. He ran both hands through his hair and scrubbed the lower half of his face before smiling at John. It was a very brittle smile. “Tomorrow.”

Apparently that last served as both a reminder and a farewell, for he turned on his heel and walked out, closing the door behind him. John sat in the wonderful couch for a very long beat, just staring at the wooden surface of the door, before lying back and staring up at the ceiling.

He fell asleep there.

\---

“Daddy, look at this place.” Lucy stood in the middle of John's living room, arms held out as if embracing the new paradigm. “Look at it!”

“I'm looking,” John said, smiling a little. For the past couple of weeks, he'd been opening the front door and just marvelling at how everything looked so well together; and it was all damned comfortable too. Whenever John came home these days, he felt a sense of relaxation so potent that he barely made it to the sofa to lie down. It felt good in here.

“This is amazing,” Lucy said now, turning to smile at John. “I like it!”

Someone knocked on the door before John could reply. He strode over to it and pulled it open; a small smile quirked the corner of his mouth, almost involuntarily.

“Hey,” he said and in the corridor, Matt smiled back; this smile seemed very easy. John was glad to see it. Matt sported a baseball cap and glasses, looking like a freshman. John inclined his head, stepping away from the door. “Come on in.”

Lucy let out a delighted cry when Matt stepped in, hurrying over to hug him tightly. Matt's left arm wrapped around her shoulder, gripping her close for a long beat.

“You look good!” Lucy held him at arms' length, looking him up and down. “Been keeping yourself out of trouble?”

“I live next to your dad now,” Matt pointed out and Lucy rolled her eyes,

“You remember what that really means, right?” She gestured wildly at John's living room. “Have you seen this place? Looks so good, right?”

“He's the one who did most of the work,” John said as Matt rubbed the back of his head and appeared quite sheepish. “Bought most of this crap.”

“My big sister was into stuff like this,” Matt admitted, twitching his shoulders as they both considered him. John experienced a little surprise at the casual mention of a sister; there was so much he didn't know about the kid, really. “I'd get into it too, you know? Every summer, something new.”

“It's great, Matt,” Lucy said and Matt shrugged. “It really is! You should do the bedroom, too.”

“I could,” Matt said, easily, but John caught the slight flicker of his eyelashes and the way he swallowed, quickly. “I mean, if he wants.”

John just looked at him; he was distantly aware that Lucy glanced between the two of them, her expression curious. Something hung in the air, he thought, knots pulling taut between himself and Matt. His face probably seemed overly intent, for Lucy gave him a slight frown and sidled closer to Matt, as if protecting him from John. _You brought me this shit_ , John thought at him, suddenly exasperated and not quite sure why. _You're getting me used to this_.

“Yeah, if he wants,” Matt repeated, with a careless shrug that did nothing to disarm Lucy's hovering. He turned towards her and nodded in that quick way he had sometimes. “Like, how old is his mattress, you know?”

“Older than me, probably,” Lucy answered, a teasing gleam lighting in her eyes as she glanced back at John. That was good; John let his shoulders relax. He hadn't known he'd been holding them so stiffly. “Time to let go, Dad!”

“Whatever Matt recommends, I'm for it,” John answered as he ambled over to his wonderful couch. “Maybe he'll let me pay for something this time.”

“Nah,” Matt said, tilting his head so that fringe of hair he liked to wear on his forehead shifted to one side. “It's just furniture, man.”

John hummed, and sat down, reaching for the remote. With half an ear, he listened to their soft voices discuss the size and colour of things. This was nice, he thought. Real nice.

\---

“Awesome,” Matt said from the doorway to John's bedroom. He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed around, raising his eyebrows when he spotted the small collections of photos atop the chest of drawers. “Hey, pics. You had them in here from before?”

“No,” John answered, giving the small desk a little push so that it lined up better with the wall. Before, his room had contained the bed and a shelf; it wasn't even really a shelf, just three pieces of board nailed together to give an approximation of a shelf. He'd kept most of his clothing in the closet, stuffed into odd spaces or boxes...the same boxes with which he'd left Holly's so long ago. Now, he had an actual chest with six drawers that sat in a space next to the door, low and darkly stained. When he'd been folding his clothing and socks to place into the lined drawers, there had been this ceremonial feeling about the whole thing...and it had been just fucking socks and boxers.

“No?” Matt looked at him, eyebrows still lifted. John noticed how he remained at the threshold of the room, like a barrier held him back. “You went and bought frames and everything?”

“Yeah,” John said, and jerked his chin towards the photos. “Take a look.”

Matt stepped in, but not after a slight pause. He went over to the chest and bent at the waist a little, looking at the images of John's children and his ex-wife. John knew the moment that Matt saw the image of himself; it was a photo taken right after the Fire Sale trials, in which he and John had been sitting on a concrete bench outside a courthouse. They both looked tired but mostly pleased. Lucy had snapped that picture with her phone, and it had been an easy matter of having it printed. It was in black-and-white, because Lucy had claimed that there was something about their neat suits and the way they sat there together that called for it.

“Hey. That's me,” Matt said, very neutrally. 

“Yep.” John took a step closer towards him. “That's you, alright.”

“Sure you want me up there?” Matt straightened up and turned around, blinking a little at John's proximity. His lips parted and John glanced down at them, contemplatively, before glancing up into his eyes again.

“I don't have a problem with that,” he told Matt and dipped his head slowly, making sure to broadcast his intent. He was sure about this, but maybe he read Matt wrong.

Definitely not, from the way Matt tipped up his chin, meeting him halfway. Matt sighed right before their lips met, and that soft sound went straight to John's dick, everywhere going warm at once. Matt's lips were firm but soft underneath his, tongue licking up into his mouth with a quick eagerness. He rest his hands on John's hips, and pressed close, kissing John as if he need to get everything done in one go; maybe he thought this was a one-time thing. John didn't even know what to count this as, except that he was extremely into it.

Matt rubbed up against him, boldly and John groaned at the hardness he felt pressed against his dick. He made a decision with the same sort of speed he usually reserved for kicking people in the face, and tugged at the hem of Matt's shirt, pulling it up. His fingers trailed up warm skin as he did so.

“Oh, shit,” Matt whispered when John pulled away just far enough to rip it over his head. “Shit, John, do you--?” He cut himself off to yank at the button-front John wore, fingers working the buttons out of their holes as he claimed John's mouth again. 

“Yeah,” John murmured against his mouth. Matt discarded his own jeans, John following him down as he bent a little to get them off, both of them unwilling to break the panting, harsh connection. When John tried to deal with his own jeans, Matt's hands were already at the waistband, unbuttoning and unzipping rapidly. He stumbled as Matt pushed him back towards the new bed, one foot still caught in a tangle of jeans and boxers, but Matt made an anxious little moan and ripped away the offending articles of clothing, tossing them to the ground with an impatient flick of his hand. 

John crawled backwards on the bed towards the pillows, Matt pursuing him, dropping kisses on the closest available bits of John's skin, settling between John's parted legs. Matt moved against him, a long slow slide and they both groaned.

“Fuck,” Matt grabbed onto John's shoulders and moved again. John's hips rolled with his, and Matt's short fingernails dug into his skin. He felt Matt's cock dribbling onto his, precum rubbing into John's skin, their sweat mingling as Matt's mouth and body pressed into his.

John's hands roamed; they travelled over the expanse of Matt's smooth back, down to cup the curve of his ass. Matt twitched back into his palms, willing and eager, and John squeezed gently and then slid his hands up again, one hand remaining on Matt's hip, the other sliding up to rest on the back of his neck, just under the damp hair. Matt arched up, eyes half-closed, arms braced on either side of John's head. He trembled and John realised he was close, mouth falling open, gaze locked on John's face. Matt let out a low soft moan, closing his eyes as his prick spurted over John's dick, cum dripping onto the coarse dark hair on John's crotch.

Matt slumped against John, mumbling something into his neck. John kissed him on the temple, and moved him a little to the side, reaching down to grip his still-hard cock.

“Woah, wait, wait,” Matt said breathlessly, wrapping his fingers around John's. “Wait, I wanna. Let me.”

John laughed a little, and let him. Matt's fingers took up the task quickly, his own cum still slick over John's cock. John touched his hand now and again, guiding him with soft murmurs: _tighter now, faster_ , and Matt pressed his mouth against John's jaw.

“So fucking hot,” Matt muttered as John grunted, thrusting into the tight circle of his fist. Matt's fingers tickled his cock and stroked at his balls as his body relaxed. The room was a bit warm, and when Matt got up and ambled to the bathroom, colder air pressed against that side of John's body.

“Hey.” Matt's voice poked through John's content drowsiness, and he opened his eyes, squinted at Matt. He had a wad of tissue in one hand and seemed more awkward over that than the fact that he was still stark naked. “So if that was just a _thank you_ for all the stuff or whatever, then--”

“Get back into the bed before you say any more stupid shit,” John advised him, and held out his hand. John wiped at his stomach and crotch, tossed the tissue to the floor and then struggled his way under the very nice sheets. He lay there, and then smiled to himself as Matt settled behind him.

“Thanks for all the stuff, though,” he said with a yawn and Matt hugged him, close.

fin


End file.
